Black Mischief (8 page)

She prayed long and often, but the consolation was short-lived. Now they had become part of each other. They had become man and wife before God.

euben Rubai was deeply affected by the family visit to the flower farm, disturbed by the new thoughts, the unexpectedly different personal horizons that were invading his consciousness. He would need time to get a handle on what was happening to him.

Sport, he hated the stuff, so why did his mother, when she got home, find him sitting in front of the plasma screen watching a soccer match? Worse still, why was he animated by the kicking, the heading and the running, willing on the team in the red shirts?

Later, stretched out on his bed, he rationalised his way out of this stupid behaviour. It was all bound up in the vivid colours, the graceful movement of young men in the prime of their lives, the passion of the spectators. Yes, of course, he wasn't taken with the idea of a contest but with the theatre of it all. He had never noticed this before. For the first time he could remember he saw drama in the hoofing, the shouting, the tantrums. After spending a tense hour and a half alone in a car with his father, the ordinariness of the match, its unthreatening remoteness was a comfort, a balm, nothing more than a timely antidote, a brief aberration. Yet he wanted to find out if the reds had won the match.

He remembered something else, this time about life in the house when Julius was with them. Julius was a great borrower. Reuben knew that, unless he went looking, he would never see his stuff again. Almost every time he went searching, he found Julius soaking in a hot bath.

‘Planning time! You should try it. Wash the body, clear the thinking processes. Get up, a new man, clean and fresh, ready for anything. It always works. I could teach you a lot if you had the brains to listen.'

He decided to try out his brother's remedy. He would run the water in the hope that he, too, would rise up out of the bath a new man. Lying in the comfort of the hot water, he let his thoughts drift. One memory of his brother triggered another. On the night of the party, Reuben was standing on the golf course watching events from a distance. It took a few minutes to dawn on him that Julius was one of the two shapes lying stretched out on the green surrounded by a crowd of stunned party guests. Dead men, a dead brother.

‘Now I'm the son and heir of the Rubai family.'

The words of his instinctive first reaction came out unbidden and startled him. The shock of them was quickly followed by a wave of shame that swept through him like a warm flush. He heard himself apologising to his mother out loud. ‘Mama, I don't … No, Mama, it is a thought from the evil one. How often have you told us to be on watch …?'

He smiled at the memory. When the thought came again, as it frequently did in the days and months that followed, there was no blaming this evil one. He was more than ready to live with it.

‘It is a fact, the truth. But why does no one else see it this way?'

He did not expect a special family moment to formalise the fact, but in five months of waiting to see if anyone else openly recognised his truth, he was disappointed. Above all, he wanted his father to say something. Just a word would have been enough. Nothing.

He turned on the hot tap again and let the water run until it was up to his neck. He became drowsy and was only roused by the distant sound of water sloshing about.

‘What the …!'

In seconds he had switched off the tap and leaped out onto a flood of rapidly cooling water. The floor drains were unable to cope with the unexpected deluge. Like a child stamping through puddles, Reuben splashed up and down the tiled floor.

‘Make waves! Make waves!'

His feet were following the rhythm of his words. When weariness got the better of him, he stamped into his bedroom rubbing himself down in a fit of wild laughter. He put on the voice of an angry Phillys, the maid who looked after his room.

‘Bwana Rubai, what have you done? Your mama will not be pleased to hear about this!'

He came to a sudden halt. Wrapping the towel around his wet body, he stared blankly.

‘Bwana Rubai, what have you done?'

In his own voice this time. ‘You, me, yes, I did this thing and someone will notice. Someone out there will have to pay attention.'

He flopped down onto the bottom of his bed. There, less than two metres away was a framed family portrait on his dressing table. It was the only photo he had of Julius. But it was not his brother, not any of his family that caught his attention. They were standing around a gleaming piece of yellow and silver machinery, Julius's new toy, a large BMW motorcycle.

He threw down his towel and took the photo over to his bed, focused his gaze on the bike and began to dream.

Three weeks later the dream began to become a reality. The afternoon was warm and still and as he eased the newly polished bike down the driveway, Reuben was dry-mouthed and nervous. Bernard, the house mechanic, had taught him to handle the superb piece of German engineering, watched over him and built up his confidence. Now he was on his own. He enjoyed the squeak of his new leathers as he moved his arms to steer through the lodge gate and out onto the public road. At least he knew that he looked the part.

When Julius first brought the bike home, Papa had persuaded the Nairobi council to lay a half mile strip of top grade tarmac to replace the murram road right outside the main entrance. This had become a practice track where Julius gradually built up his speed on timed runs. Reuben had it fixed in his mind that his brother had once hit a hundred and ninety for a marked two hundred metre run. But, as usual, Julius became bored with his new toy and never rode the machine on any of the planned long distance safaris to the coast and the Uganda border. And he disliked the sweats he raised under the riding gear. No, a car was a much superior vehicle. For now, Bernard would keep the bike in good order but out of sight.

Reuben's plans for the big, yellow machine were less ambitious. For the first time in his life he was willingly playing the sporty type. The prospect of danger was thrilling. His aim was to tame the powerful beast enough to get himself down into town and tear along Uhuru Highway and any other main road that took his fancy. He would be the mystery rider that turned heads with his speed and daring. If the cops ever managed to pull him over, all the better.
The Nation
and
The Standard
would enjoy printing stories about the wild son of the Big Man. He would be noticed, perhaps even by his father. For now it would be gentle runs around the block.

For half an hour he rode up and down the stretch of tarmac, shifting through the low gears, weaving and turning and successfully keeping his balance. He wondered if he should try something a little faster, just push it a little harder, test the timing device that Julius had brought over from Germany to make recording speeds easy and reliable, all at the touch of a button. The bike itself seemed to be urging him to be more bold. When Reuben revved the engine enough to suggest he was about to give it free rein, the response was alert and eager.

His first timed run was exciting. One hundred was no great speed, but it gave him a sense of fear, of risk. He wanted more. A hundred and five, a hundred and eight. The faster he went, the easier it was to control the bike. Bernard had warned him that speed was a drug and that he must not push too hard. He would allow himself one more run.

He started on the murram, a hundred metres back from the beginning of the tarmac. Before setting off, he looked down his track imagining that he was at the start of a big race. By the time he passed the lodge gate he knew he must be going at well over a hundred and could not resist pushing much harder, whatever happened. What a way to go!

The crossroad was coming up fast and, with a great effort, he eased back. He had never felt a greater sense of achievement. During the hour and more that he had been out on the road, he had not seen a single other person. This had been a bonus.

When she rounded the corner up ahead, he was caught completely off guard. A big, bay horse was trotting towards him on the edge of the road. The small female rider tried to steer the animal out of the way. All would have been well had he braked calmly and eased gently to a stop. He hesitated, and then panicked. He was too heavy on the brakes and the bike skidded off the tarmac onto the grass verge and came to rest, with the front wheel just touching the boundary wall. Reuben was not physically hurt and the machine was undamaged, even if insulted by smears and smudges of red mud and dust.

Instead of being grateful for a soft landing, he was furious with the person who had dared to ruin his perfect afternoon. As he checked over the BMW, he raged against the young woman sitting on the verge ten metres away, holding the reins of her horse.

‘You stupid, stupid cow! Look what you've done! You'll pay for this.'

To have a good look at the bike, Reuben pulled off his helmet. The girl was close enough to recognise a neighbour. She screamed back.

‘Oh no! Not another half-wit Rubai allowed out on the road to terrify the neighbourhood! More money than sense. Little boys playing with big man's toys. And you can't even control the bloody thing.'

Even in his anger Reuben saw that the young woman was in pain. She was struggling to get to her feet and he hurried over to help.

Passions were cooling on both sides. She raised her left arm to restrain any possible over enthusiasm. ‘My bloody arm has gone. Help me up. That's all I want from you. Then just bugger off before I really lose it!'

He held back. He wanted to help. But that would mean he had to get very close to her, to touch her. The idea created its own panic.
Oh, shit! She's looking at me! Now what do I do? Shut my eyes. That would be useless. She probably thinks I'm some kind of weirdo!

Out loud he tried to make up a sensible explanation for his hesitation. ‘See, I'm just working out the best way to, sort of, approach this. Don't want to make things worse, you know?'

‘No, I don't know. Just grab me around the waist and lift. I don't bite! Not usually.'

Stung by his own stupidity, he obeyed meekly. His ordeal was over in seconds, but the reverberations of the simple act stayed with him much longer.

He stood behind her and grabbed her ‘round the waist. Her flesh was firm under his grasp. The flat of his hand touched the sharp bottom of her rib cage then slid up inadvertently. The softer feel of her breasts acted on him like an electric shock. He almost let go. She glared at him, but her grimace was for the pain, not for anger.

‘Okay, leave it. Come on, Shadow. Home, boy!

Reuben did not know much about perfume. He could distinguish between Lydia's flowery scents and his mother's musky French and expensive concoctions. But on this female the scent of jasmine mingled with the smell of human perspiration. It intoxicated him.

‘Can I carry your hat?'

She paused and looked intently at him.

God, what was happening to him? All his life girls then women, well, he liked them, got on with them. Lydia was one of his best mates. But this was different and made him feel uncomfortable. For a second time a woman was causing confusion in his mind. It was that whore, Rebecca Kamau, who had first disturbed him. When she had been Julius's woman, he had paid her no attention, had hardly noticed her until the night his brother died. Within minutes those smooth thighs under the torn green dress were exciting him in a delicious way. He saw them again countless times in his imagination. The vision created an aching sense of longing.

Yesterday, at the McCall place, he had been forced to be in her presence without daring to say even a single word to her. He had found himself constantly watching her. His frustration had been physically painful. He had not wanted to be on that crazy expedition in the first place, asking for forgiveness from that arrogant bunch of white nobodies. Stupid! Stupid! But when she had taken the kids off on a walk to the lake, he longed to go with them, to be with her to talk, anything. Instead he was forced to stay, he and his father against the slimy toad and his land robbing father.

Within minutes of the start of this private, futile confrontation, rage was boiling up inside him. This son and heir, this whitey bastard had mesmerised, tricked an innocent beauty, taken advantage of her, probably shagged her. Look at him sitting there, typical European in the mzungo uniform, shorts; big brown, scuffed boots; long, thick socks; the confident, muscular pose, who expects to get his way, and pretty damn quick. First they steal the best bits of land and next they grab all the other jewels they set their eyes on. This one had grabbed a diamond and killed his brother in the process.

On the journey home to Karen, his father's long silences had allowed him to follow his drifting thoughts. His rage had subsided. He relived parts of the blazing row with the McCalls and enjoyed, actually enjoyed, allowing pictures from the past to rise from his subconscious, all of this Rebecca. She should have been a part of the family by now. He saw her in the green silk dress at the party in the Muthaiga. There had not been a single smile and the sadness in her expression had, in retrospect, only enhanced its beauty.